Cross a DJ with a Nerd, you get a Seb.
Archive for July, 2003
Rehab Is For Quilters
Jul 18th
Alcohol and I are not good friends. I’ve never really done anything to alcohol, it just decided it despises me and has set about ruining my life. Forget the dangers of drink-driving for a moment. They pale into insignificance next to last Saturday’s drink-dj’ing incident.
There I was, pounding out musical moments on the wheels of steel, when suddenly thousands of units of alcohol climbed up the stairs and leapt into my throat. Said alcohol then set up a sound system and a keg in my frontal lobe, and proceeded to get on down and par-tay. I can remember the first three hours I played quite clearly (bit of house, bit of disco…). The next two are a bit of a blur (some tribal house, some jackin’ house anthems….). Then the last three hours are a complete blank. Thankfully my lovely pals and co-workers were there to remind me. I’ll start with the text messages..
“You had a shower last night. In the dj box, with a bottle of Mount Franklin”
“At least this time you kept your pants on.”
“Text me, I’m worried. You looked like satan.”
“R U okay? You banged your head really HARD.”
“Bet you puke till Wednesday”
“If ur looking 4 ur car it’s out the front of ur house xx”
Not exactly the best messages to wake up to, but it certainly answered my questions about the lump, the bruising, and the way I inexplicably lurched to the left every
time I took more than two steps. I thought I’d contracted some sort of neural wasting disease in my sleep.
After hearing the following over the past week, I almost wish I had.
“You said you were hot, and poured your drink on your head..”
“Scout had to pick you up off the floor to do your mix, then gently put you back in the corner when you were done…”
“You kept hitting your head against the door, and said it had gone numb. Then you ran out into the room and asked people if your head was still there, because you couldn’t feel it.”
“Halfway through hugging Gavin and telling him you loved him you shoved him away and yelled “Who are you? Don’t touch me!!!”
“Glasses were thrown. But you threw them at yourself.”
“Barbara picked up your records for you and put them back in the sleeves”
“You went behind the bar and stood there grinning at people for like, five minutes.”
“You kept saying ‘Not crinkle hood!! Not crinkle!! I have NO idea what you were on about”
“You tried to take your pants off again, but I stopped you.”
“You tried to tell Scott the wedding dress story, but I stopped you.”
“You were laying in the corridor, telling people to f**k off”.
“You were mixing with your eyes closed, and your face was centimetres away from the record”
“We put you into bed, and you kept yelling ‘Oh the bright!’ until we shut your blinds”
“You threw your phone on the concrete when you couldn’t open the front door and yelled ‘Stupid keys!!’ at it.”
“You fell on someone’s parked car and then abused it.”
“You were so funny! You said ‘I fellded over’, but we couldn’t understand you at first, ‘cos your lips were pressed against the floorboards.”
The smirking and the knowing glances will fade over time, I’m sure. As will the camouflage style bruising. At the moment I’m more concerned that my phone no longer plays ‘Get Ur Freak On’ when I have an incoming call. It just kind of whimpers momentarily, then feigns death.
I wonder if there’s a Phonethrowers Anonymous support group near me?
Water Nazi
Jul 7th
I’ve done it again. Oh the shame.
On Friday nights I manage the bar of the club I dj at. It’s all part of my new duties as assistant to the assistant manager. Therefore, rather than being safely tucked away in the safety of the dj box – which is upstairs – I’m down on the floor, or behind the bar. Now I normally enjoy working the bar, it makes the night fly past, and of course there’s always the added bonus of guys trying to pick you up. No matter that some of them have a head like a microwaved hog’s ass, it’s the fact that they pay you some form of attention that’s important.
The Friday night crowd are normally a fantastic bunch of people. They spend most of the night at the pub down the street, then stagger up the road to visit us. Usually by this stage of the evening they’re all slightly inebriated and up for some fun, resulting in lots of (interpretive) podium dancing, outrageous flirting, water fights with the bar staff ( I swear I never start them) and sometimes if we’re really lucky, they pass out in their own drool – a personal favourite of mine.
Well this Friday was a little different. As soon as I walked in and saw the bar staff with fear in their eyes I knew it was not going to be the best of nights. After serving a couple of patrons, I realised that “Get me a Bourbon and Coke, and don’t think I’m going to say please…” followed by “…I said Bourbon and Dry!!! What the f**k is this???” would be the order of the evening.
I managed to restrain myself, and smiled happily at the lovely people intent on seeing me cry, until the age old argument of water came up. Being a nightclub, we sell bottled water, at a reasonable price. We have overheads, and we’re there to make money. We don’t serve, sell or give away glasses of water, unless someone is unwell, or in desperate need. It’s one of the rules, and ten or so people a night try to get around it. It’s shocking I know. A nightclub punter that tries to get something for nothing. You wouldn’t read about it……
So, the man in question staggers up to the the bar, and demands a glass of water.
“I’m sorry, we only sell bottled water.” I replied, helpfully
“Well that’s rubbish, I’ve had glasses of water all night.” He snorted.
“We don’t serve glasses of water, I’m afraid. It’s against policy…”
“Well you did, and you will!!”
“I’m actually not allowed to.”
“Well she gave me one!!” he said, pointing to one of the bar staff who is the singlemost biggest nazi when it comes to the water rule. Using the old ‘they did’ trick is a favourite amongst water blaggers.
“I’m sure she didn’t.” I scoffed, now completely confident that he was trying it on.
“She did! And HE did too!” he continued pathetically, not realising he was pointing at the owner. Now I had definate proof he was lying.
“Mate, just give it up….. That’s the owner, and he instigated the rule about glasses of water. If someone gave you one out of kindness earlier then fine, but don’t embarrass yourself by trying to blindside me. I’ve heard every excuse in the book.”
Sensing that he had been caught out, he made one last desperate attempt.
“Yeah, well if you’re not supposed to give it to me then fine, but all of the staff here have charged me $1.50 for a glass of water, and I’ve had three, so give me a refund then.”
I was impressed. The guy had guts.
“Mate, there’s no way that would ever happen. Just give it up. We never have, and never will sell glasses of water. Not her, not him, not me, not any of the other bar staff, not any other night of the week. Not during International Water Week. Not ever. There’s not even a button on the till for it.”
He sighed and ordered a bottle. I took his money, thanked him, and gave him a big cheesy ‘I win!’ grin. Another victory for the Seb and his amazing powers of perception.
Five minutes later I picked up a piece of paper that had fallen off the bench behind me.
It read :
ALL BAR STAFF. AS OF TONIGHT WE WILL BE OFFERING GLASSES OF WATER FOR $1.50 TO PATRONS. RING UP UNDER ‘SUNDRIES’ IN THE TILL.
The water nazi grinned at me cheekily and said “Didn’t see that coming, did ya?”